


The Exploits of Moominvalley

by boorishbint



Series: little moomin fics [2]
Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Angst, Family Bonding, Fluff, Friendship, Joxter and the Muddler discuss love, Joxter and the baby Snufkin spend a new year together, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28577757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boorishbint/pseuds/boorishbint
Summary: A further collection of short one-word prompt fics from my tumblr1). Snufkin + winter / Joxter + fireworks2). Joxter + night
Relationships: Joxaren | The Joxter & Snusmumriken | Snufkin, Joxaren | The Joxter/Mymlan | The Mymble, Lilla My | Little My & Snorkfröken | The Snork Maiden, Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snusmumriken | Snufkin
Series: little moomin fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2095095
Comments: 7
Kudos: 42





	1. Snufkin + winter / Joxter + fireworks

‘Hurry, Snufkin! It’ll be summer again by the time you come down!’   
  
Papa is ahead of him; he usually is, being a Joxter and much bigger. A Joxter can be all sorts of places before Snufkin can. Places like where Papa is now, which is striding across the powdery surface of the frozen lake. His boots leave prints behind in the frosty top.   
  
It’s the kind of winter Snufkin can taste in the back of his throat. The kind he feels in his chest, like a stone, despite all the layers Papa has bundled him up in. The snow makes everything quiet, hushed and blank around them, trees sprouting in black and bare branches to a sky the colour of frothed milk.   
  
Snufkin doesn’t know it, being as little as he is, but it’s the kind of winter Snufkin will compare all winters to going forward.   
  
He takes another uneasy step to the edge of the jetty Papa had jumped down from. The water is flat as paper beneath, splintered in places. It looks awfully far down from where Snufkin is standing. He takes his step back, little hands curled into fists against his chest and looks out.   
  
Snufkin can’t see that much really, with his scarf wrapped up around his nose and his hat pulled down. The hat Papa found for him is too big, perfect for being tugged down over cold ears. Not so perfect for keeping an eye on Papa, who is very far out now.   
  
The lake stretches a long way, white and empty, until it meets more sky that is just as white, and just as empty. Except for Papa, who stands like a sooty thumb smudge on fresh paint. For Snufkin, small and alone on the jetty, his father is the only thing he can see.   
  
‘Snufkin!’ Papa spins on one foot, his coat flaring like a flower as he turns back. ‘Come now! Don’t be such a Hemulen’s blouse, it’s not that far!’   
  
Snufkin thinks it’s very much that far but he doesn’t like when Papa calls him a Hemulen anything; blouse, sock or otherwise. Hemulens aren’t very nice, Snufkin thinks and he doesn’t fancy being any part of their wardrobe.   
  
He goes to the end of the jetty again, the wind going over his shoulders in a downward sweep. Papa makes everything look so easy and Snufkin looks forward to being big himself. Then he’ll be the one who can go to all the places and jumping from jetties will be easy, too.    
  
As it is, it’s not very easy at all. Snufkin ends up getting to his knees and trying to slide off, but he’s stuck now, boots dangling in the air. The ice is very far, yes and Snufkin is getting worried now he’ll be stuck hanging off this jetty forever. He doesn’t want to fall.   
  
‘You’re almost there!’ Papa says behind him, but Snufkin isn’t sure he believes that. His boots are swinging in what feels like lots and lots of emptiness. Emptiness doesn’t catch Snufkins jumping off jetties.   
  
‘I can’t!’ Snufkin wails, getting teary now. ‘It’s too far!’   
  
‘You’ll be fine!’ Papa says, laughing a little and that only serves to upset Snufkin more. It isn’t funny, after all! ‘Let go, you’ll be grand!’   
  
Snufkin doesn’t think he’ll be grand, not even a little bit. But it’s getting very hard to hold on now. The wood is cold, icy and his fingers are very pink. It’s beginning to hurt, holding on like this. Snufkin doesn’t have fluff, like Papa does, to keep him warm.   
  
‘I’m going to fall!’ he says, legs kicking out from under him as his fingers slip entirely. Snufkin feels himself drop, shouts as he goes and he closes his eyes very tight against the fright.   
  
But he doesn’t hit the ice. No; two large paws are there, under his arms and he’s caught quite safely. Snufkin squeaks, surprised and tilts his head all the way back to look at his father upside-down. His hat bunches up against Papa’s chest.   
  
‘Hello there, little one,’ Papa says, grinning. His breath fogs like clouds. ‘I said you’d be alright, didn’t I?’   
  
Snufkin thinks this is cheating but doesn’t know how to say that. If he’d know Papa would catch him then Snufkin wouldn’t have been afraid at all.    
  
Papa puts him down on the ice, holding Snufkin’s hands in his paws. Snufkin isn’t very sure about this ice at all, curling his legs up in the hope Papa might carry him instead. Papa just laughs at him, waiting for Snufkin to put his own boots down to the lake’s surface.    
  
‘Now then,’ Papa says gently, letting go of Snufkin’s hand so he might stand by himself. Snufkin wobbles a bit, from nerves more than anything. ‘Think you can run, my wee love?’   
  
Snufkin frowns. ‘Why?’   
  
‘Because,’ Papa replies, putting his paws on the knees of his worn trousers and bending down to nearly Snufkin’s height. Like this, Papa’s hat goes over Snufkin like an umbrella. ‘If you want to see the magic trick I have, you’ll have to catch me!’   
  
With that, Papa suddenly runs off. He kicks up white dust from his boots as he goes, the ice hard beneath his feet. Snufkin is after him, just as quick; Snufkin is used to these games. Papa is always running away, or climbing up trees too high, or jumping over busy streams. Snufkin finds it very hard to win these games.   
  
But he runs all the same, his scarf trailing after him like a tail. The world is white save for Papa, who turns in circles as he runs, laughing with his mouth open wide and teeth sharp. Snufkin nearly slips, quite a few times, but he is most determined.    
  
The determination pays off, for soon Snufkin is on Papa’s heels. Closer again, (perhaps because the Joxter is doing it on purpose, but to be as small as Snufkin is means he does not notice such things), and soon Snufkin can reach out with two pink hands and grab unto Papa’s tail where it stretches out from under his coat.   
  
‘Oh!’ Papa cries, skidding across the ice and down to his knees in one movement. It has him spin Snufkin around, dragged as he is by his grip on the tail. ‘A clever Snufkin, indeed! I’m well caught!’   
  
Snufkin beams, most proud of having won the game for once; not that Papa can see, of course, for Snufkin’s scarf is still tucked up very high. Papa never covers his nose; it gets very red in the cold, like something burnt.    
  
Papa reaches out for him, tugging Snufkin back around, gathers him up in a heap and presses said cold nose to what parts of Snufkin’s face he can reach. Snufkin squirms and squeaks, then starts to laugh.   
  
‘I suppose you ought to see the magic trick now, hm?’   
  
Snufkin nods, thinking that very fair, yes.   
  
‘Well, well,’ Papa says and he puts a paw to the ice. ‘Lie down.’   
  
Snufkin does not want to lie down on the lake. It’s very cold. Papa laughs and it puffs out of him the same as smoke from his pipe, blown away to nothing by the wind.    
  
‘I’ll warm your ears up again, I promise,’ Papa says to him, laying down himself. Snufkin watches as Papa lays, his face turned one way and he presses one long, black ear to the lake. ‘Come here, darling, or you’ll miss the trick.’   
  
Snufkin scrambles down, trying to copy Papa best he can. They’re lying side by side now, facing each other like they do in their own tent. Snufkin flinches when he pushes his hat about so he can get his ear to the ice; it’s awfully cold.    
  
‘Do you hear that, my little one?’ Papa whispers as he splays one paw on the surface, white frost bunching up between his fingers. ‘Underneath us?’   
  
Snufkin listens. It sounds like nothing at all, as silent as the rest of the winter around them. He doesn’t hear water, or fish, or even mermaids singing. There’s nothing but the bite on his ear. Snufkin looks to Papa and shakes his head.   
  
Papa grins. ‘Good. That will make this all the better then!’   
  
Papa rolls over onto his back, and Snufkin copies him. Snufkin’s very good at copying Papa. Above them, there is nothing but white sky.    
  
‘Listen closely,’ Papa says and Snufkin turns his head to see Papa take something from his pocket. It’s a stone, smooth and black, and before Snufkin can say anything about it, Papa sits up and throws it.   
  
The stone flies off across the ice, through the frigid air. For a moment, there’s more nothing. But then-   
  
Snufkin gasps, surprised by the whistling that surrounds them. It starts and stops, like a clock ticking, louder and louder- and then gone. The echo remains, barely there and Snufkin feels like the lake is trembling beneath them.    
  
Papa looks at him, very happy indeed. ‘Will I do it again?’   
  
Snufkin nods.   
  
Papa throws another rock from his pocket, further and the noise is louder. It’s so loud and it fills the world around them, all the way to its edges and then curls in back again, to just Snufkin and his father. They are all alone in the world, making magic.   
  
‘What is it?’ Snufkin asks, deeply curious. He wants a real answer, not a silly Papa answer.   
  
‘It’s a firework,’ Papa replies and Snufkin makes a tut noise, which from a creature so small sounds most like a huff. Papa arches a brow. ‘You don’t believe me?'   
  
‘Fireworks are for the New Year,’ Snufkin says stoutly, for this much Papa has shown and told him before. ‘And they have colours.’   
  
‘Who says it’s not the New Year?’ Papa asks, tilting his head and his whiskers twitch. ‘We live our own calendars, after all. We can start the New Year anytime we like.’   
  
Snufkin likes this idea. ‘Any time at all?’   
  
‘Any time at all.’   
  
‘So if we don’t like the year, we can just make a new one?’   


‘Why not?’ Papa laughs again. ‘And why not have whistling fireworks with no fire, for our very own New Year?’   
  
Snufkin really likes having a New Year just for them. Things are always better with just Papa and he. Out here, in the world so white and cold, they’re the only thing around made up of greens, and yellows, and reds.    
  
‘We’re Spring!’ Snufkin realises, most delighted. He claps his hands together. ‘We’re starting the year over!’   
  
Papa blinks, blue eyes round and familiar. ‘Then you ought to let one of the fireworks go, hadn’t you?’   
  
Papa tugs him up and over, standing Snufkin between his legs. He gives him a stone and explains how best to throw it. Snufkin’s stone doesn’t go very far, nor whistle quite as long but alone as they are, it’s the loudest thing around and Snufkin is very happy with it.    
  
‘I can start over any time?’ Snufkin asks Papa, wanting to be very sure of this. He rubs circles on the last stone with his tiny thumbs. ‘Make the year new again?’   
  
Papa blinks, slow and blue. ‘Quite right, my small darling.’   
  
Snufkin smiles, wondering why anyone would stick around when they could start again, and make fireworks from stones. 


	2. Joxter + Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With bonus Muddler as I love him!

It’s the night after the party and The Muddler is thinking. He’s been thinking a long while, almost entirely since breakfast which is long indeed! He taps his toes, the long ends of the gloves he wears for socks flapping as he goes, the Oshun Oxtra bobbing beneath. 

Some thoughts require much tapping. Muddler thinks it must run in the family, for Uncle taps his pencil against his temple when pensive. 

The Joxter doesn’t seem to be thinking. Not that he does much of anything, Muddler thinks with much envy. Uncle is always having Muddler do all sorts of jobs. Even Moomintroll gets jobs, though he’s the type to feel rather proud about it. Muddler thinks it’s because he gets more important jobs.  
  
The Joxter never seems to get jobs, important or otherwise. All he does is what he does now; sleep in the ropes on the top deck, head hanging over the end like an overripe apple.

‘Gracious, you’re in a fierce huff, aren’t you?’ The Joxter surprises him and Muddler jumps. ‘I can hear your thoughts tick-tick-ticking.’

‘I’m not in a huff,’ the Muddler retorts, quite huffy.  
  
‘Ah, you are a wee bit,’ the Joxter continues, crossing his boots at the ankle. ‘Huffing and puffing like an old pipe.’  
  
‘I don’t like pipes,’ Muddler says and the Joxter makes that short, raspy noise Muddler has come to recognise as a laugh. Perhaps if he smoked less himself, it wouldn’t sound so scratchy a thing. ‘I’m just thinking.’  
  
‘Goodness, that’s even worse!’ the Joxter says, with what sounds like genuine disappointment. ‘Be careful, or you’ll end up like Moomintroll. Thinking so much you have to start writing it all down. What dreadful work.’  
  
Muddler does hope he doesn’t end up like that. He’d forget half his thoughts if he had to write them down, knowing he’d take far too long trying to choose the right pen. He has lots of very nice ones, scattered about the tin. Shiny blue ones, and skinny green ones with tiny brass caps!  
  
Muddler wonders how Moomintroll ever managed to settle on his silly fountain pen. Perhaps Muddler ought to have offered something-?  
  
‘There you go again,’ the Joxter sighs. ‘Thinking up a storm. And we were having such lovely weather, too.’  
  
‘I won’t make a storm!’ Muddler says, alarmed by the thought. He looks up, pushing his pot back so to get a good look at the stars.  
  
The Joxter is right; the night is very lovely. The sky is the big, black expanse of a warm evening. Even the stars have stretched out with all the space, pulling distances between them like taffy. If the Oshun Oxtra were to fall off the Earth right now, there’d be nothing close enough to catch it.  
  
Muddler quickly looks back down. 

‘Do you know a lot about love?’ he asks, completely without meaning to but it seems his thinking has run off without his sense.

The Joxter tilts head backwards, all the way until his hat falls off. Upside-down like so, his hair is as straight as it’ll ever be. Which is still not very straight at all.

‘What makes you think I know anything of love?’

Muddler flushes at once, loath to do it for it always shows. His fur peeters so thin on his cheeks, which is most unfair!

‘Well, don’t you?’ he says to the Joxter, trying not to pout but it sounds like one much the same. 

The Joxter grins, (or frowns, hard to say from here). He’s always so pleased when Muddler pouts, on purpose or not. This, Muddler thinks, is also very unfair. The Joxter would never bully him, of course, but he does so like to tease.  
  
‘Maybe so, maybe no,’ the Joxter answers, which is no answer at all. ‘But tell me, Muddler, do you know a lot about love? Must know something asking a question like that, eh?’  
  
Now Muddler is sure he’s gone very red indeed. He looks away, both paws up to pull his pot down as far as it can go. Which isn’t very far, given his large ears, so he pulls both legs up as well and tries to curl in on himself to a very small ball.  
  
The Joxter’s boots hit the deck at once. ‘Oh! No, no! Don’t fret like that, Muddler!’  
  
 _‘Mm nuff freffing,’_ Muddler lies, quite muffled from between his knees. The Joxter sits down next to him, one paw to the Muddler’s shoulder.  
  
‘Such a terrible baby, you are,’ the Joxter says kindly, giving Muddler a small shake. ‘I was only taking the mick.’  
  
Muddler wipes his nose with his sleeve as he sits back up. ‘You always do.’  
  
‘Can’t seem to help it.’  
  
‘You could if you really wanted to.’  
  
The Joxter hums. ‘Probably. But it’s habit now, and who can be bothered to change a habit?’  
  
When Muddler doesn’t answer him, reeling as he is still in his own foolishness for asking about love in the first place, The Joxter takes his paw away and bumps Muddler’s shoulder with his own, scooting close. Muddler sniffs and smells the Joxter’s peppery tobacco.  
  
‘Go on then,’ the Joxter says, gentler than before. ‘What were you going to ask me about love?’  
  
‘You’ll only tease me again,’ Muddler replies and the Joxter laughs again.  
  
‘I promise I won’t.’  
  
Muddler considers this. Uncle says the Joxter is fair enough at keeping his word. Moomintroll says the Joxter can only be trusted as far as he can be thrown; but Moomintroll is quite strong, so he likely can throw the Joxter quite far…  
  
‘How do you know..?’ Muddler starts, before getting very embarrassed. He puts his head back to his knees. ‘Oh, nevermind! This is so silly!’  
  
‘Good,’ the Joxter says stoutly. ‘Love should be at least that, don’t you think?’  
  
Muddler looks up, one eye to the Joxter’s whiskers. ‘That love should be silly?’  
  
‘Absolutely,’ the Joxter replies, paw to his chin as though he were Moomintroll considering the horizon. ‘Love ought to be greatly silly.’  
  
‘Why?’  
  
‘Because silly is fun. And if love isn't fun, then why fall into it?’ the Joxter answers, sounding very sensible. ‘If one is to fall into things on purpose then we should be promised a fun landing. It’s why we jump into snow, after all. So it’s the same thing.’  
  
Muddler frowns. ‘Uncle says we need to be careful not to be too silly.’  
  
‘Don’t listen to that old tinker.’ The Joxter waves his paw for good measure. ‘And certainly don’t listen to Moomintroll. Don’t even ask him.’  
  
‘Why not?’ Muddler asks, curious. ‘Moomintroll knows lots.’  
  
‘Lots of old nonsense,’ the Joxter says, clicking his tongue. ‘All he knows of love he read from a book. Love is far more exciting than anything written down. Just you wait, Muddler. Moomintroll will fall in love himself one day and everything he thinks he knows now will go quite out the window.’  
  
‘Well, then,’ Muddler starts, feeling braver now the Joxter has said so much. ‘What do you know about it all then?’  
  
The Joxter meets his eye. In the night, the Joxter’s eyes turn very dark and round. Uncle says he’s got eyes like marbles.  
  
( _And they’re the only marbles he has,_ Uncle Hodgkins always adds).  
  
‘That I’m in love, myself,’ the Joxter replies, lips curling to the side like they always do. His smile always shows that sharp tooth. ‘And it is very silly indeed.’  
  
Muddler sits up like a pin, shocked. ‘You’re in love?’  
  
‘Oh, yes!’ The Joxter drops his cheek into his paw, staring out across the water. He smiles again and looks nothing like Muddler has ever seen in him before. ‘Rather sudden, but I think these things are best sudden, don’t you?’  
  
Muddler does, rather. Not that he can quite believe the Joxter in this moment to say so.

  
‘It’s a remarkable thing,’ the Joxter sighs warmly. ‘And the lady, too.’  
  
‘Which lady?’ Muddler has never been so curious.  
  
‘The Mymble,’ the Joxter says fondly, and he’s grinning again. ‘It’s dreadfully splendid. I spent the whole party dancing with her, you know.’  
  
Muddler does. Though he still asks; ‘But how do you know you love her? It was only one party.’  
  
‘I know much the same as I know anything,’ the Joxter says. Uselessly, as it doesn’t help Muddler at all. ‘Do you know what she said after I made her laugh?’  
  
Muddler shakes his head.  
  
‘She told me I had soot on my nose,’ the Joxter says. ‘It wasn’t my joke at all she was laughing at. It was so daft a thing it made me laugh, too. I think there’s something to be said about two creatures making each other laugh from a bit of soot, don’t you?’  
  
Muddler isn’t sure he quite understands. But he’s beginning to get an idea.  
  
‘What about a button?’ Muddler ventures, picking at the patches on his knees. ‘Do you think something that little could make a difference?’  
  
‘I think something like that can make all the difference in the world,’ the Joxter replies, with such confidence that Muddler believes him at once. ‘What else are buttons for, if not holding things together, after all?’  
  
Muddler feels very bright and happy about that. His thinking kicks off again, bringing him back to the memory that’s been burning like a candle inside him since the party. Of the sweet Fuzzy who picked up the milk-white button that had fallen from his pockets mid-jig.  
  
‘It was a very fine party,’ Muddler says and the Joxter nods in agreement. ‘With very fine creatures about.’  
  
‘Very fine,’ the Joxter agrees, and they both sit in quiet then, enjoying the lovely night.

**Author's Note:**

> www.boorishbint.tumblr.com


End file.
